


the ties that bind us

by spectreshepard



Series: our fated share [3]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I mean it, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Angst, Spoilers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, buckle up we're going to a viking wedding, canon adjacent, eivor is a bratty sub, i would like to thank ubi for giving us one (1) wedding quest, sigurd gives me feelings, vili doesn't know how to deal with it, with a few tweaks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-21 08:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30018720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectreshepard/pseuds/spectreshepard
Summary: Vili and Eivor deal with some of the shenanigans surrounding Gunnar's wedding in Ravensthorpe, though it springs forth some unexpected questions that neither are sure they can answer.
Relationships: Eivor/Vili Hemmingson, Randvi/Ubba Ragnarsson
Series: our fated share [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199177
Comments: 20
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ...i don't have anything to say for myself other than i _really_ love these boys and i can't seem to stop writing them, i'm very sorry
> 
> but come on, Gunnar's wedding? perfect excuse to write some domestic fluff and minor frustrations between the two. this'll be a mini fic in itself, so i chose to have it separate from the one-shot collection! but as ever, it belongs to the same series and follows the events of my og fic in the series, 'for we who fall', so check that out if you want to avoid some canon-divergent surprises!

Even after five years raiding up and down England’s verdant shores, Eivor finds himself woefully unprepared for the strange and muggy summer heat that descends every year. It is irritatingly hot in the longhouse, even with a cool draft flowing through from one door to the other and the hearth as low as it can be kept without letting the stew cauldrons grow cold. He shifts uncomfortably in the jarl’s seat, head resting on a curled up fist, legs crossed at the ankles while he regards Sigurd stood in front of him, caught in a heated discussion with Randvi, stood off to Eivor’s right. 

“...and it would be entirely worth the journey to Glowecestre, is all I’m saying.” Sigurd shrugs flippantly, and Eivor just lifts a brow when he turns to look at him, as though he’s expecting backup. In all honesty, Eivor lost track of the argument as soon as it had started - all he can think about is how nice a visit to the spring or the orchard would be, better still if he could sneak a nap in and claim a moment’s peace from a bustling settlement. 

Eivor hears the faint and familiar noise of a mug hitting the table, and lifts his gaze beyond Randvi where he sees Ubba sitting, watching the argument with nothing short of amusement dancing in his eyes. He meets Eivor’s stare and his mouth twitches with a smile beneath his dark beard, which almost obscures it from sight. Eivor huffs a silent laugh, fist uncurling to rub tiredly at his forehead when he turns his attention back to the bickering. 

“There is no need to overextend ourselves for an alliance that gets us nothing more than what we already have, Sigurd, despite the silver your thegn might be ringing in your ears.” Randvi’s words cut through Eivor’s wandering thoughts, and he’s inclined to agree.

Since withdrawing from Wessex, it seems as though the bonds of alliance between the remaining kingdoms of England have only grown stronger. Trade flows freely, the rivers are safer than they’ve been in months, and Eivor must deal with all manner of passing visitors to his hall as he oversees a growing clan. After the toil that has brought them here, Eivor finds it is a comfortable place to be, but for a heart that is used to wandering freely through hills and forests, it is a change that comes slowly. Every so often, an itch returns to him, sitting just under the skin and humming its way into the mundane activities of Eivor’s life, demanding attention. The only solution is to leave Ravensthorpe for a day or two, usually with Vili in tow, and find a quiet place out in the wilds of England that remains untouched. 

This summer has not allowed that, yet. Eivor can feel the beginnings of that familiar hum starting to creep in at the base of his skull, echoing in the words that are being thrown across his hall between his brother and his advisor who seem intent on arguing the semantics of something entirely unimportant. But Eivor supposes that isn’t unusual for them. He smiles to himself, gaze sliding away from the two of them to a sudden shadow in the southern doorway. He recognizes it instantly, and his smile grows. 

“Do you know half of Ravensthorpe can hear you?” Vili announces, carrying a heavy basket of freshly chopped logs for the hearth ready for later. Eivor notices his distinct lack of a tunic, skin flushed by the sun and glistening, and any thoughts of paying attention to Sigurd and Randvi are immediately forgotten about. He watches as Vili sets the basket back in its place, obscuring the curve of a grin from Sigurd and Randvi both as he turns away from their protests.

“What do you think, Vili? Is it really worth sending our jarl to Glowecestre during their summer festivities at the behest of a thegn who only seeks to cause trouble?” Randvi asks pointedly, walking to the closest table where she rests her hands upon it, fixing Vili with a look Eivor knows all too well. 

“When you put it like that, Randvi...” Sigurd half-laughs, half-groans in frustration, “There is _more_ to it!”

“And yet, I do not hear otherwise.” Randvi counters, and Eivor can hear the tremor of amusement in her tone. 

Vili claps his hands together, brushing off dust and sweat as he turns to look at the three of them. Walking forward, he glances between Sigurd and Randvi before he lands his gaze on Eivor, close enough now for Eivor to see the faint sunburn over his nose. “Glowecestre? You might have to go anyway, Eivor.”

Eivor sits up, far more willing to pay attention now. “For what reason?”

“You should speak with Gunnar.” Vili’s answer is not enlightening in the least, and Eivor rolls his eyes.

“Does he plan on running away again soon?” 

Vili laughs, shaking his head. “No. Speak with him, you will find out.”

Eivor’s brow furrows as he shoots a glance at Sigurd and Randvi both, who look just as confused as he feels. He returns to Vili, standing up from his seat. “If he has something to say, why would he not come here and tell me?” 

“You will understand when you  _ speak with him,  _ by the gods, Eivor, do I need to say it again?” Vili folds his arms, defiant even as Eivor stands there above him. “He kept me there for so long, I ran out of logs to split.”

Eivor’s grin returns. 

“Alright. Let me find out, and then perhaps the winds will bring us to Glowecestre regardless.” Eivor steps down from the throne, no longer looming over Vili, and he looks to both Sigurd and Randvi. Sigurd looks too smug for his own good, and Randvi just rolls her eyes, turning to Ubba instead.

“If it is a good enough reason to make the journey, I have no complaints.” She throws over her shoulder with a smile as she’s pulled into a one-armed embrace from Ubba, his arm wrapped around her waist as he fixes Sigurd with a glare - not quite hostile, but certainly something that might be mistaken for a challenge, or at the very least, a silent plea to  _ shut up _ . Sigurd just bows his head in friendly acknowledgement, chuckling, and then he looks at Eivor.

“Go, then. Find out what it is our old friend wants.” Sigurd waves him off. Eivor is only too happy to take the opportunity to get out. He brushes past Vili, patting him on the arm to indicate he should follow, and then he’s walking out into the summer sunshine, Ravensthorpe’s paths lined now in verdant green and colourful blooms. Eivor takes a deep breath as he steps outside, inhaling the sweet scent of summer flowers and the fresh air, and he feels the weight of the hall simply melt away with the breeze. 

Vili’s hands rest on his shoulders a moment later, squeezing lightly.

“You turn to stone the longer you sit in that hall,” Vili hums quietly, thumbs rubbing small circles at the back of Eivor’s neck, “One day, I will walk in and find a stone-troll sitting there instead.”

Eivor chuckles weakly, “Could you tell the difference?”

“Not by your looks.” Vili laughs, giving Eivor a gentle nudge. 

Grinning, Eivor starts on the path again, following the faintest sound of ringing that echoes from Gunnar’s forge where he must be hard at work, even in the sweltering heat. Vili’s long strides find him at Eivor’s side where he slows to fall into step with him, and Eivor finds it harder to recall the last time he walked Ravensthorpe’s paths alone. There is always an echo now, and Eivor would have it no other way. Knuckles brush absently as they walk, no cloaks or heavy armour to hide their quiet gestures. 

They pass the tree where childlike laughter drifts from the branches, full with summer green, and Eivor looks up to find Knud’s leg hanging just within reach. He reaches up and grabs the boy’s ankle, and laughs when he hears the yelp that follows. Knud’s gaunt face hovers over him moments later, a scowl creasing his brow.

“Careful, boy,” Eivor tells him, “You do this in the wild, you’ll be a meal for wolves.” 

Knud’s eyes widen, and a fresh peal of laughter sounds from two other voices in the tree. Sylvi and Eira peer out of the canopy, greeting Eivor shyly. 

“Mouse would never!” Knud states stubbornly, and Eivor lifts his brow.

“Mouse is a special wolf, remember?” He pats Knud’s ankle, letting him go. “I just do not want to see you falling from trees, Knud. Mind your balance.”

“Where are you going?” Sylvi pipes up, hair falling into her face as she pushes through some of the canopy to see Eivor and Vili. Her face lights up when she catches sight of the taller man, and Eivor has to resist the urge to laugh. He knows Vili’s handsome, nobody has to tell him that, but there’s something endearingly funny about others taking a shine to him - particularly when Vili has to deal with it. 

“To the blacksmith, young one.” Vili answers, hefting an arm around Eivor’s shoulder as he leans against him, looking up into the tree at the three curious faces peeking out.

“Oh!” Eira elbows Knud almost entirely off his branch in her sudden enthusiasm, “I heard he was looking for Eivor so that--”

“Ah, shhhh!” Vili presses a finger to his lips, eyes gleaming with mischief. Eira claps her hands over her mouths, suppressing a giggle. Vili laughs, “It’s a secret, remember?”

“Why is it a secret?” Eivor asks, bewildered. “Are we not going to find out?”

“It’s a reaaaaallly big secret, Eivor.” Sylvi giggles, “And Vili told us not to tell you.”

“It’s a _stupid_ secret.” Knud huffs.

“Ah, one day, you will think otherwise, Knud, when somebody catches your eye.” Vili taps the side of his nose, winking. Eivor narrows his eyes at him, wondering what in Hel he’s playing at, but given that he’s made fast friends with the terrors of Ravensthorpe, Eivor doesn’t think he’ll find anything out until he finally makes it to Gunnar.

“Well, if nobody here will tell me, I suppose I will have to go and hunt this secret down myself.” Eivor looks back up into the canopy at the three expectant faces. “Be careful.” He points at Knud, receiving a reluctant smile in response, and then he takes Vili’s hand to lead him back along the path, Vili’s laughter warming his back as the sun fills his bones with light. They walk a little ways down the path in comfortable silence, hands linked, 

“Of course, you have recruited the village terrors to aid in your schemes.” Eivor accuses with a teasing smile, shooting a half glance at Vili over his shoulder. Vili beams back in response, and Eivor is struck for a moment by how bright he seems. Shadows had followed Vili ever since Hemming left them for Odin’s halls, clinging to his dark furs and crawling up into the seas contained within his eyes, vast and unknowable, cast under a gloom that even Eivor couldn’t chase away. Deep down, Eivor knew his grief would not idly slip from him in the night - he had put it aside to shoulder Eivor though his troubles, and he had kept it locked away in favour of enjoying his new life in the wake of Cippenhamm. Every tide has to break someday, though, and Eivor had been waiting for it. 

“They are handy to have around,” Vili admits, stepping closer now that Eivor’s stopped walking, “They know far too much about far too many things, though.”

“Sharp ears as well as eyes.” Eivor agrees with a chuckle, absently letting go of Vili’s hand to cup his cheek instead, feeling sun-warmed skin beneath his palm and the scratch of Vili’s beard, shorter than usual. Vili looks bemused as he does so, but he lifts his brow and smiles, not complaining in the slightest. 

“Something on my face?” Vili asks when Eivor says nothing for a moment. 

“Mhm,” Eivor nods, making an expression of mock disgust, “Your face. It’s terrible.” 

Vili bats Eivor’s hand away when he squishes his cheeks suddenly, turning his protest into an incoherent mumble that gets caught up in his own laugh. Eivor’s grin returns, and he nudges Vili’s shoulder gently.

“No, you just…” He looks at Vili again, almost afraid to speak - like his adoration might blind Vili instead of warm him, “You have a light in your eyes again. I have missed it.” 

Vili’s face falls slack with silent recognition. Eivor watches the faintest traces of tension disappear, the sun-kissed, slightly sunburnt skin taking on a blush that can’t be blamed on the summer, the way his eyes soften entirely -- it’s such a little thing, but Eivor feels lucky to even catch a glimpse of it. Vili’s hand drifts to the back of Eivor’s head, tangling lightly in his hair as he pulls Eivor’s head to his own, gently, resting their foreheads together. Eivor breathes in deeply, enjoying the closeness and his warmth, even in the baking heat.

“I hate to flatter your ego, raven-brains,” Vili murmurs quietly, “But you put it there.”

Then he presses a fleeting kiss to Eivor’s temple before he lets him go, grinning once again. “Now, do you ever intend on hearing poor Gunnar’s troubles? Must he suffer endlessly at your leisure?”

Eivor snorts, shoving Vili in the chest. Vili catches his hand, bringing knuckles to his lips before suddenly biting on them, making Eivor half-snort, half-laugh, trying and failing to pull his hand away.

“Oh! Sunbeam, you finally met your match,” Birna’s voice drifts over to the two of them, and Eivor turns to find her approaching, gesturing skywards where the sun is sitting overhead. Eivor chuckles at the nickname and his apparent competition, half-shrugging as if to say, what can he do? When Birna nears, he watches her expression change suddenly as she seems to notice Vili’s presence and the way he’s still clutching Eivor’s hand to his chest.

_“Ah,_ that’s right, haven’t you--” Birna begins to say, and then Eivor feels his hand getting yanked up again to Vili’s mouth as Vili makes a shushing sound, using Eivor’s hand to make the gesture. 

Eivor just sighs. “Does  _ everyone  _ in this village know except me? I’m the Jarl!”

Birna looks as apologetic as she can, which… isn’t very much. She grins widely, eyes sparkling as she shrugs. “We just happened to be in the right place at the right time, Sunbeam, you’ll find out soon. Is that where you’re going?”

“It is,” Vili confirms, “Once Eivor stops being stubborn.”

“I-- You--” Eivor stumbles over his protests, losing his words entirely when Vili tilts his head at him in question, lips pulled into a crooked smile. 

“I’ll not stand in your way,” Birna laughs, “Far be it from me to oppose love and its unknown mysteries.” She winks, as if she knows something - which, she clearly does, Eivor thinks - and then she passes them on the path, heading for the longhouse, leaving Vili standing there triumphantly as Eivor tries to wring his hand out of his grip.

“Come on.” Eivor puts all of his weight suddenly into moving forward, and it brings Vili forward unexpectedly, sending them both stumbling down the path for a step until they right themselves. Eivor finds himself laughing freely by the time they near Gunnar’s shop, forge smoke tinging the air with a bitter smell that cuts through the sweet flowers. It gets almost unbearably warm as they step closer and find Gunnar hunched over his latest project. Eivor glances around for any sign of Brigid, but he sees only Gunnar here, and begins to round the forge into Gunnar’s line of sight. 

“Ah, Eivor!” Gunnar greets him with his usual booming voice, but Eivor notices there’s a slight twinge to his words that isn’t usually there. He glances down to see what Gunnar’s working on and finds a freshly cooled blade, half-polished, but beautifully made. Ornate. Very, very ornate. This is not a blade for any of their warriors. Eivor narrows his eyes, going to take a better look, but Gunnar slaps the table, getting Eivor’s attention.

“Am I not allowed to see your work?” Eivor’s lips lift into a smile, curiosity piqued. Gunnar actually looks nervous - he shifts from foot to foot, even as he leans his palms flat on the table and stares at Eivor. 

“Did you want something--” Gunnar begins, then cuts himself off with a frown. Eivor leans his hip against the table, grin widening. Gunnar tries again, “I-- I was wondering…”

He trails off into silence. Eivor shoots a glance at Vili, who is sitting on the grass verge now, reclining against a hay bale set out there for the summer festivities. Vili just smiles back, resting his hands behind his head. Looking back at Gunnar, Eivor tilts his head in question. “What’s wrong, Gunnar? I’ve never seen you so restless.”

Gunnar seems to gather himself for a moment, taking a deep breath. If Vili wasn’t smiling like one of Freyja’s cats who found the cream, Eivor would be worrying that something terrible had happened. 

“Brigid and I were thinking,” Gunnar manages half a sentence in a voice that doesn’t waver, and Eivor stands upright, paying full attention, “With everything calming down the way it has… do you think--” He clears his throat, frowning, “Maybe you could find a spare moment and…”

Silence. Again.

But Eivor feels a grin tugging at his lips once he connects the pieces for himself. The buzz of anticipation suddenly makes sense, and Eivor makes a sound of realization, settling his hands on his hips as he looks at Gunnar. Of course. After all, it is one of his many duties as jarl, should someone request…

“You wish to be married.” Eivor states the missing piece. Gunnar nods, relief sinking his shoulders. 

Eivor doesn’t hide his grin anymore. His face almost aches with joy, barely withheld as he tries his best to keep his jarl’s guise in place. He reaches across the table and claps Gunnar on his shoulders, resting his hands there.

“Gunnar, my friend,” Eivor chuckles, “To see you so happy has been a pleasure. And to marry the two of you would be an honor.” 

Gunnar lets out a quiet laugh of relief, patting Eivor’s hands in wordless thanks. Eivor pulls back, and then the talk of Glowecestre from earlier returns to him in a sudden wave of realization.

“Are there friends of yours or Brigid’s that I must put out the call for?” Eivor asks.

Gunnar shakes his head. “Nothing and no-one kept me in Norway. The Raven Clan is my family, Eivor. And Brigid too -- from all she’s said, she’s better off here than with those she calls kin.”

Eivor has no problem turning away from tradition. He has done it himself, and thrived for it. His clan would find the same grace that the world has given him - he promised them that. 

“Then we need not bother,” Eivor shrugs, “If you’ve your bride and your blade, we will see you wed. As jarl, I do it gladly.”

Never did he imagine he might be the one to do this, Eivor thinks, but there is something heartwarming to the notion that he would be the one to bind his friend to a happiness that would last until death, when Gunnar is one of few who’d pulled him from his own. He meets Gunnar’s gaze, the both of them sharing a knowing look that says more of their shared years than words would allow. 

“The honor is mine, Eivor.” Gunnar tells him. “You are a worthy jarl, and you have given joy to so many. We are glad to be a part of that.” 

Eivor isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s not sure he  _ can  _ say anything at all with how his throat restricts suddenly, unable to swallow such niceties. He settles for a firm nod, grin turning into something more sincere, tempered by experience, but no less grateful for Gunnar’s words of praise. 

“Now go, enjoy your time together. I feel as though I have pulled you away from something.” Gunnar waves him off, gesturing to Vili basking in the sun, eyes closed now as he rests against the bale. Eivor snorts at the sight.

“I will get things in order, Gunnar. Freyja’s day approaches soon, a good day to be married on.” Eivor points out, taking a step away from the forge towards Vili. 

Gunnar beams, arms held out to his sides. “I follow your wisdom, Eivor.”

Eivor half-turns back to Gunnar, considering something for a moment. It has been more than a few months since they’d returned from Cippenhamm, when things had finally been allowed to settle. Has he really been waiting this long to ask? 

“We will make it a wedding worth waiting for. It has been  _ months,  _ Gunnar -- did you not wish to tell me before now?”

Gunnar looks sheepish, and he folds his arms across his barrel of a chest as he shrugs. “You were a very busy man.”

“I always make time for my family,” Eivor points out, then glances at the blade on the work table, “You just worry about getting that blade finished. We will take care of the rest.” 

* * *

Rather than returning to the oppressive heat of the longhouse, Eivor had found himself walking with Vili to the docks. Or, rather, Vili had pulled the both of them there, hand in hand, and Eivor had simply let him.

The riverbank is full of life and chatter as people take the opportunity to soak up the afternoon sunshine, sprawled out on straw mats and woven blankets, breeches rolled to ankles as they paddle in the river’s cool waters. It’s a pleasant buzz that hums in the air, a feeling of renewal now that spring’s hard toil has paid off and summer has begun to grant them their rewards, with Freyja’s blessing.

Eivor sits with one leg hanging off the dock, leaning against one of the lantern posts as Vili mirrors him on the other side of it, the post set between them. It’s too hot to wrap around each other like they usually do, and Eivor finds that is a sore downside of this sweltering heat despite the bounty it brings. He doesn’t dwell on it long, the sunlight warming him through pleasantly and putting his twisting thoughts to rest. He wonders absently over all the things he’ll have to do for Gunnar’s wedding - the list seems endless at first, there’s the harvest to bring in, decorations to make, perhaps Tarben will provide some treats, and maybe there’s time to send someone to fetch some oysters--

“You think so loudly,” Vili murmurs, interrupting his thoughts, “Which is impressive for someone with raven brains.” 

Eivor turns his head to glance at Vili, who’s resting his own head against the lantern post, eyes closed, but still wearing a smile on his face. Eivor’s lips twitch with the effort of hiding his own smile.

“Don’t be jealous just because a thought passes through your head only once in a season.” 

Vili’s smile widens, and he opens his eyes. They’re immediately caught between the reflection of the river and the sunlight bouncing off it, the usual dark of his ocean blue now rippling with seafoam. 

“You know, I have never actually attended a wedding.” Vili says then, eyes drifting away from Eivor. It takes a moment for the words to sink in, for Eivor to realize once again that so much of Vili’s life was lost to him, but this is a strange admission to make. Eivor hums quietly in thought, resting his head against the post in the same way Vili is on the other side, bringing them closer together, noses almost bumping. 

“Were there none in England for you to cause trouble at?” Eivor’s smile grows weary, pulled thin by the stretch of years they have missed together. Vili chuckles quietly, shaking his head. 

“None at all.” He answers, watching as someone goes catapulting off the dock into the water to a chorus of cheers and yells. Eivor glances over, spotting Rollo emerging from the water a second later with a face-splitting grin. He huffs a silent laugh, then turns back to Vili, sensing that he has more to say. Vili runs a thumb along the palm of his own hand, a gesture Eivor knows he makes when he has too many thoughts to filter through. The sunlight warming his skin is momentarily reduced by a growing concern, a cold breeze that drifts along his neck for a second before it disappears.

“I think the closest I came to one was when I was obsessed with that girl in Norway.” Vili glances up at Eivor from beneath dark lashes, almost like he’s afraid to look. Eivor just laughs, reaching a hand around behind the post to run his fingers along the shorn hair at Vili’s neck in a soothing gesture. 

“I remember,” Eivor says, “Astrid. You were not yourself, Hemming even asked me if I had slipped you something in your stew as a joke when you insisted on going hunting for a trophy for her one night.”

Vili groans, embarrassed. “Did I not keep you up that entire night with talk of marriage and children and the farm we would own?”

He nods to Vili, recalling the memory with unfortunate clarity. It had been a strange night for Eivor. Fifteen winters old, barely with a grip on the world, and even less of a grasp on his own self and why he’d felt so angry when Vili had come back from a trip, raving mad about a girl. They’d joked and messed around in Stavanger and Fornburg, dared each other into shaded corners with girls and boys fumbling their way through the maze of adolescence, returning either with a boastful grin and bragging rights, or hanging their head in shame -- none of that had bothered Eivor, so why had this twisted his gut into painful knots? Why did it crawl under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch? It had plagued his dreams that night too, and he’d woken with a bitter taste on his tongue. 

He knows now, of course. But it had been a difficult brew to swallow then. 

“You did.” Eivor murmurs, and the dregs of those old, forgotten emotions tumble from his lips in a sigh that makes Vili look at him properly, lifting his head away from the lantern post to face Eivor, concern lying heavy in his gaze. Eivor lets his hand fall from Vili’s neck, returning it to his own lap.

There’s a beat of silence where all they can hear is the water lapping at the dock and the stones on the shore, laughter and chatter on the air growing muted in the shadow of their thoughts. Vili’s hand stills, wrapping around the edge of the dock where his knuckles turn white with the force of his grip. 

And then Vili breaks the silence.

“Were you jealous?” 

Perhaps Eivor should have expected the question. It leaves him staring at the water for a moment, as though Vili’s words had punched through the flimsy recollection of memory Eivor had been holding onto and sent them scattering upon the surface, and now Eivor must pick them up and piece them together again to give him an answer.

“I didn’t know at the time,” Eivor says after a moment, shooting Vili a pointed glance, “But yes. I was.” 

Vili drops his gaze and chews on his lip, brow furrowing. Eivor can see the apology forming. He reaches up, index finger lifting Vili’s chin to bring his gaze back to him, and Eivor smiles.

“We were young, you were stupid--”

Vili snorts, “Shall I remind you that  _ you  _ picked up a viper with your bare hands?” 

“It looked like a branch…” Eivor grimaces. 

“It was  _ green.” _

“I do not think you have a leg to stand on,  _ arse-stick.” _

Just like that, the tension is shattered. Their words fall away into easy laughter, and that faint chill at the back of Eivor’s neck is gone, replaced now with Vili’s warm hand as he thumbs so lightly over Eivor’s scar, Eivor would have mistaken it for a breeze were his eyes not wide open and fixed on Vili. 

“Do you still think of… of those things?” Eivor wonders. It feels like a dangerous question to ask, and his mouth goes dry as soon as the words leave his lips. He means the big things, the looming questions that have always belonged in the future where they could think about it later, but now the future is here, and they have no answer. He lets his hand fall from Vili’s chin, but Vili catches it on its way down, holding it tightly in both of his own. It’s a little sweaty and uncomfortable in this heat, but the gesture isn’t lost on Eivor, who feels his suddenly rapid heartbeat slowing as Vili thumbs the back of his hand.

“I was a stranger to myself thinking of those things then.” Vili’s answer isn’t terribly revealing, and Eivor frowns, unsatisfied. 

“And now?” 

Vili’s expression is irritatingly unreadable. He seems to know when Eivor is looking for any sign of his thoughts, and while his subtlety is usually nonexistent, he has the uncanny ability to wear the many faces of Loki when Eivor wants to read him most. They hold a tense silence, knowing Vili’s answer could potentially change the course of their fated thread, held tightly between their hands clasped together on Vili’s chest. 

“Is that what you want?” Vili asks, sidestepping the question again. Eivor’s hum turns low, almost a growl.

“If you were as good at dodging axes as you are words, you’d have nothing to fear on the battlefield.”

Vili lets out a noise, a half-laugh, half-sigh, wrapped up in something he can’t quite say. In some small way, Eivor understands. It is not an easy thing to ask, and even less so to answer. 

“Do not worry about it, Vili. Let us enjoy the day and its warmth, there is time enough to think of these things later.” Eivor sighs, a smile returning to his face as he untangles his hand enough to pat Vili’s chest, scratching lightly as he does. He feels Vili’s breath stutter, and his smile turns to a self-satisfied smirk at the reaction. 

“This summer heat is too heavy now, Eivor,” Vili murmurs, swallowing, “Can we not find some respite in your quarters?”

Chuckling, Eivor drags his hand along Vili’s chest, watching how Vili’s eyes follow. Vili licks his lips, glancing up at Eivor with a slowly growing smile as he leans in, intent dark in his eyes. Eivor lets him.

“It is hot, isn’t it?” Eivor muses almost idly, staying right where he is. He trails his hand up to Vili’s neck. “Maybe you should cool off.” 

Vili makes a much bigger splash than Rollo did. 

Eivor laughs loudly as Vili emerges from the water a moment later, dripping wet, glaring up at Eivor with an expression torn between delight and utter irritation, and Eivor has the foresight to pull his legs up from the water before Vili grabs him and brings him down. Getting to his feet, Eivor fixes Vili with a sharp grin, even as he takes the opportunity to stare brazenly at Vili’s body, delightfully lined in ink, water droplets marking every curve and groove of muscle, chest rising and falling fast with short gasps as the shock fades away. Eivor would enjoy the sight up close later.

“I have a lot to do, dragon-heart, come and find me in a little while.” Eivor tells him. Vili huffs, splashing the water up onto the dock where it just hits Eivor’s boots. He wades closer, looking up at Eivor with a lopsided grin.

“Is that a promise?” Vili wonders. Eivor lifts a brow, turning to begin walking down the dock. He hears the splash of water as Vili wades parallel to him, up through the shallow bank.

“I don’t know,” Eivor shrugs, only turning to Vili once he hits dry land, “Is that what you want?”

“Oh, fuck you, Eivor.” Vili growls as his words are turned back on him.

Eivor leaves him laughing, his feet taking him back to his duties even as his mind is left adrift in thoughts of Vili’s hands in his hair, on his back, nails digging into skin, and how sweet Vili’s name might sound in his mouth later. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, taking ubba and making him a very important and totally integral NPC? more likely thank you think im sorry

By the time evening begins to fall, the sun still hanging stubbornly in the dimming sky, Eivor feels about as worn out as the well trodden dirt path he’s following up to the lookout, away from the bustle of the village that has been swept up in a frenzy by the news of the upcoming wedding festivities. Eivor can hardly blame them -- it has been a long year of recovery, and they could all do with respite and revelry. 

Still, Eivor craves a moment’s peace, and that is something he can’t find so easily in Ravensthorpe these days. 

The air has grown cooler, but a lingering warmth still prevails even with the presence of a breeze now drifting lazily from the east, sending waves through the tall grass and bright flowers that line the fields. Eivor trails his fingers along the tips of the grass blades, letting them tickle his palm as he casts his thoughts to the winds and empties his mind in the silence, until all that’s left is that strange and twisted knot now sitting in his chest. It has been there since this afternoon, since he’d asked Vili that dangerous question and left without an answer. And it feels as though with every step he takes up the hill, that knot is being pulled tighter. 

Eivor’s hand closes around a blade of grass, pulling it free with a satisfying rip. He begins to thread it between his fingers, over and over, pulling it tight enough to stop the blood flow for a second before releasing it again, watching the way his skin changes colour. It’s a mindless thing to fiddle with, and it eases some of the ache he carries in his chest for the walk, until he finally reaches the summit where the wooden outpost looms on a rise nearby. 

Eivor squints against the sunlight as he spots a slight flicker, a shadow moving on the tower. Frowning, Eivor begins walking towards it, wondering who might be lurking around here when it seems as though the entire country has crowded into Ravensthorpe. Approaching the base of it, Eivor calls up.

“Who’s there?”

There’s a moment or two of silence, then a familiar face peers over the side of the tower, looking down. 

“A Saxon spy,” Ubba calls back, “You let anybody in here, these days.” 

Eivor laughs, and when Ubba waves for him to come up, he makes his way to the wooden steps. By the time he reaches the top, the breeze is a little stronger, and a little cooler. It’s a welcome reprieve from the day. He spies a lone bottle sat on an upturned crate, Ubba’s usual pelts and cloak discarded on the floor by them, flattened as though he’s been sitting on them. Eivor glances at the view, momentarily lost in the horizon as it burns in yellows and pinks, colouring the fields gold and vast under the slowly waning light of the sun.

“Not a bad spot, eh, Wolf-Kissed?” Ubba says from beside him, and Eivor’s inclined to agree. 

“You had the right idea.” Eivor says with a weary chuckle, thinking of how this place looked when they’d first arrived in the wake of the Ragnarsson’s invasion. It feels like a lifetime ago. The weight of the years is palpable in that moment as he looks out over Ravensthorpe, and he turns away to take a heavy seat on the other side of the crate, resting his elbows on his knees. He hears Ubba do the same, resting back on his furs and cloak as he reaches for the bottle, offering it to Eivor.

“You look like you could do with some.” 

Eivor gives Ubba a sideways glance, exhaling sharply through his nose. Is it that obvious? He stares at the offering for a moment, tongue running along the sharp points of his teeth as he wonders where Ubba will try to lead him. But he has come to know him as a close friend now, and not simply an ally -- he has experience and wisdom that Eivor has yet to pluck from the world, and it wouldn’t be a terrible thing to share.

So he takes the bottle, sniffing at the liquid that sloshes around inside. It’s sweet. Berry-wine. Not Eivor’s favourite, but it would at least make his words taste sweeter when he’s forced to utter them. He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a draw, the overwhelmingly sweet taste filling his senses a moment later. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Eivor passes the bottle back to Ubba.

“That is  _ sweet.” _ Eivor sighs, wrinkling his nose as the taste sticks in the back of his throat. Ubba chuckles quietly, taking his own draw from the bottle before he sets it down.

“Sweet, but strong enough to wash away a stubborn thought.” Ubba says in response, looking at Eivor. 

When Eivor had first laid eyes upon him, he’d seen a scarred giant of a man, run ragged between Ivarr’s chaos and the looming fractures of a newly-pacified England. His brow lay heavy with constant thoughts of conquest, lifting only in the moments where he allowed himself to enjoy his spoils, revelling in friendship and hacksilver alike - and those moments were few and far between. Now, Eivor sees the man smile more often than he glares, and even then, those glares are usually less of a threat and more of a friendly challenge to the tempers that flare between Sigurd and Eivor, always ready to pull them back to task if they stray too far. It is a welcome change, and one that he hopes Ubba finds peace in.

“This sky has no clouds, and I am beginning to think it is because you took them all for yourself. There is a gloom about you, Eivor.” Ubba’s voice fills the silence that had followed his last words, an unintentional slip on Eivor’s part, and he glances down at his hands, the blade of grass still wrapped around his fingers. He begins to unthread it. 

“Just an odd question that I am yet to find an answer to.” Eivor shakes his head, almost laughing at himself. He never once thought he’d be talking to Ubba Ragnarsson about this, of all people. 

“What is the question?” Ubba presses, now looking to the horizon instead of Eivor. 

“You have heard Gunnar’s news?” Eivor asks in return, wondering where to even begin. He hears Ubba’s laughter, and takes that as confirmation that yes, there is no living soul in Ravensthorpe who hasn’t heard by now. 

“I spent some time with Vili after we spoke with Gunnar, before coming back to the longhouse.” Eivor drops his gaze to the blade of grass between his fingers again, watching the way it’s beginning to pull apart in strands, weakening as he twists and bends the blade, “We spoke of weddings, about how he’s never been to one. I didn’t think much of it - he’s not the sort.” 

Eivor pauses.

“Well, I didn’t think he was.”

He feels Ubba’s eyes on him then. Eivor swallows, brow furrowing as he looks at Ubba out of the corner of his eye, almost afraid to see what common sense he has waiting for him. Because there would undoubtedly be a simple answer to all this, there always is - Vili has taught him that. Eivor just hadn’t expected it would be Vili who gave him the complicated question to begin with. 

“What exactly happened?” Ubba snorts, “You asked him to marry you and he said no? Is that it?” 

Eivor feels his face turn beet red as he scowls at Ubba, “No!”

Ubba stares at him levelly, a twinkle of amusement in his pale eyes as he regards Eivor then, for longer than Eivor likes. Gods, if that had been the case, Eivor doesn’t think he’d be sitting here - he’d be halfway up the river to Eurvicscire on his way to throw himself into the frozen snows of the north to hide his shame. He’s never considered asking--

“Steady, Eivor.” Ubba nudges Eivor’s elbow with his hand clasped around the bottle again, offering it to him. Eivor takes it gratefully, hoping the sweet wine will knock some of the ridiculous thoughts out of his head. It doesn’t, but it does almost make him gag this time as the sweet liquid almost burns its way down his throat. He coughs as he hands it back, pounding a fist against his chest as if that will help. 

“No, no, I…” Eivor shakes his head, looking up at the sky with a long, drawn out exhale, “There was a time in our youth where Vili was convinced he was going to marry this girl he’d met. He spoke of a wedding, and children, and the fucking farm he wanted to grow old on…” Eivor trails off in a laugh, like he can’t quite believe he’s saying all of this. 

“Go on.” Ubba rests the bottle against his thigh for the moment, watching Eivor carefully. 

“I asked him if he still wanted that. I did not mean anything by it,” Eivor admits, “It was a curiosity more than a… a question.” 

Ubba hums quietly in thought, fingers tapping rhythmically on the glass. 

“Did his answer disappoint you?” 

Eivor stares at Ubba, taking a moment to even register that the words had come from his mouth. The breeze seems to fall around him, growing quiet. The sun beats down upon him, but the warmth is held at bay by some unseen chill that sits beneath the skin. In that moment, Eivor feels detached from everything that surrounds him, and he’s left alone with this simple question.

Did it disappoint him? 

He rubs at his neck, catching his scar briefly. He thinks of the way Vili likes to trace it, softly, tenderly, as though his touches might heal any lingering hurts -- there are none, Eivor knows, save for a soul-deep fear of howls in the night. But the intention is there, and Vili makes it known. 

Dropping his hands, his fingers link together idly as he begins to play with the blade of grass again, but all he can think of is how eagerly Vili reaches for him in the most mundane hours of the day - when they are walking Ravensthorpe’s paths, or when they are waking in the morning, tearing themselves from the warmth of their bed and each other - Vili always reaches out for that last touch before he has to let his raven fly. He is never far, and he makes sure Eivor knows that too.

And finally, Eivor looks up at the horizon again, the sun barely any lower in the sky. Summer solstice almost hangs upon them, and it is this stubborn light that Eivor finds a strange kinship with - that the longest nights are always matched by the longest days sooner or later, even in passing, when they lie poles apart, it will always come to be. And that feels very much like the bond he shares with Vili. They have waited years apart to ensure a lifetime together, and Vili had told him he would not leave Eivor’s side again. He has made sure, for certain, that Eivor knows that as well and as truly as he knows his own heartbeat.

So why then, does this simple question threaten to unravel all that has been woven? 

It is then that Eivor realizes it isn’t anything close to disappointment at all. 

“No.” He answers Ubba at last, turning to look at him. “We are joined in every way that matters.” 

Ubba smiles, small and sincere. Maybe a little smugly too. “Right. Save your poetry for him, then. I haven’t had enough of this to imagine you are Randvi yet.” He waves the bottle in his hands.

Eivor just thumbs the bridge of his nose, beginning to see just how this man might be related to Ivarr at long last. Ubba barks out a laugh, sitting upright as he sets the bottle down. It makes an almost hollow sound - it is far emptier than it was when Eivor first arrived, and he can feel the slight haze that’s sinking over him like a foamy sea in pleasant waves. 

Eivor shoots Ubba a pointed look, his thoughts turning instead to the man before him. “I have come to expect wisdom from you, Ubba, but not like this. You have walked along similar paths, haven’t you?” 

Ubba looks almost mischievous, in a way Eivor never expected he might. 

“Should Randvi expect an ancestral weapon in her hands any day now?” Eivor presses. Still, Ubba smiles, undaunted, and Eivor almost envies his composure. 

“I think our jarl has a more pressing wedding to organise first,” Ubba admits after a moment of letting Eivor suffer in silence, which he looks far too pleased about, “But… perhaps.”

Eivor grins triumphantly. “You two are well suited. Wit and strength to match the Aesir themselves, and then there’s you.” 

Ubba snorts. “Trailing in her wake, yes.”

They settle into easy laughter, and Eivor feels his shoulders growing less heavy by the second. He tears up the grass blade into little pieces, letting them rain down from the edge of the tower as he lets his thoughts fall away from him, enjoying the peace and quiet now that his questions have been put to rest. 

“What are you doing up here anyway?” Eivor asks softly, glancing over his shoulder at Ubba. The man gestures before him to the vast horizon, of England lying resplendent in gold. Does he come to admire his riches? That is more Ivarr’s way, Eivor thinks, and it must show on his face, because Ubba lets out a quiet sigh, like he’s thinking of an answer that would satisfy Eivor.

“If I say I am reminiscing, would you call me old and foolish?” Ubba lifts a brow, his mouth set in a grim line. 

Eivor shakes his head. “No. It is only a fool who looks upon his spoils without acknowledging the cost of it.” 

“And what a price we have paid.” Ubba murmurs. “What a price my father paid, to begin all of this.” 

“And look what you have given him.” Eivor responds, voice quiet, laden with respect for the dead he will never know, “A legacy that will outlast any of us. That is no small gift.” 

“Hmm.” Ubba nods slowly, a little uncertainly. Then he lifts his gaze back to Eivor, offering a faint smile. “Then I will hold my wedding gifts to such a standard, that only seems fair.”

Eivor chuckles. “A small kingdom? You would not see Randvi for the maps she buries herself in.” 

“If it makes her happy, I can make peace with that.” Ubba’s smile grows. 

There’s a beat of silence before Eivor hears something below - a voice, shouting up. 

“Hey! Chicken-draugr! I know you’re up there!” Vili calls. 

“...Chicken-draugr?” Ubba asks. 

Eivor just shakes his head. “Don’t.” 

He shifts forward slightly, enough to peer over the edge to find Vili standing at the foot of the tower, arms held out to his side as he grins up at Eivor. 

“Come on. I’ve waited all day!” 

Eivor grins back. He knows exactly what he’s done, telling Vili to find him and then making himself scarce. It’s a game he enjoys, both the chase and the reward of Vili taking out his frustration on Eivor in the privacy of their room afterwards. 

“Waiting for what, I wonder.” Ubba says drily from behind Eivor. “Go, before he climbs up here and ruins my peace.”

Eivor laughs. “Alright. And thank you, for listening.”

Ubba says nothing else, only raises the near-empty bottle of wine in quiet salute as Eivor makes his way down the tower.

* * *

The longhouse is empty when they enter, practically stumbling over each other as they fight each other past columns and over benches, stealing kisses, pulling at belts and breeches, not quite undoing each other yet for fear of someone walking in. Eivor hisses as he catches his knee on a bench corner, and Vili is left hopping on one foot for a spell after he stubs his toe on the table leg, Eivor’s muffled laughter following him to their shared room. Mouse is laying there outside the doors, and her tail thumps once, then twice, and she lifts her head up to greet them. If ever a wolf could seem so uninterested in the world, Eivor feels Mouse has mastered the expression. He stoops down to give her a scritch behind the ears as Vili steps over and into the room, already kicking his boots off. 

“Don’t let anybody too close.” Eivor tells Mouse, chuckling quietly as he rises. She huffs, her head returning to the cool floor, and Eivor is forgotten about as he steps over her, following Vili. Eivor catches him watching, and then turns away to close the doors behind them. He lets his palms rest against the engraved wood for a moment, focusing on keeping his breathing steady and his anticipation in check, despite knowing full well where tonight will take him. A smile curves his lips as he lowers the wooden plank into place across the door, because he can hear Vili’s footsteps approaching. Impatient, as ever.

Moments later Eivor is pressed up against the door, face held to the wooden surface by a strong hand fisted in his hair, Vili’s lips inches from his ear as he presses into him from behind. Eivor can feel him, even through their breeches that are annoyingly still in place, and his smile grows wider as he turns as best as he can to look at Vili from the corner of his eye, silently challenging him. 

“All  _ day, _ Eivor.” Vili utters, breathing harshly on Eivor’s neck. He presses his lips to the skin there, just below the scar, while his other hand fumbles with the belt of Eivor’s tunic. There’s a clatter as it hits the floor, and Vili is immediately running a hand underneath the fabric, warm and strong as he runs his hand up Eivor’s front, to his chest, grabbing and squeezing at hard muscle, flicking a sensitive nipple for a hiss from Eivor, and Vili hums his pleasure at the sound, kisses now travelling back up Eivor’s neck to his ear. Eivor pushes back into him, laughing, but he’s silenced sharply as Vili rocks his hips into him and shoves him back against the door, hand still fisted in his hair, almost painfully now. Eivor lets slip a sigh when Vili’s kisses turn soft and sweet as he maps his face, following his cheekbone to the corner of his lips, so close and so far from where Eivor wants him to be. Vili lets go of his hair, and the hand exploring Eivor’s body falls to Eivor’s hip where Vili squeezes lightly, and then moves away, giving Eivor room to turn. 

With Eivor facing him, Vili returns greedily to Eivor’s lips, hands now raking along Eivor’s front hard enough to leave the faintest of marks. Eivor’s breaths stutter beneath them, the slight burn of pain lacing with the building thrill of being at Vili’s mercy for the night, and the feeling goes straight to his cock, confined by the laces of his breeches. He lets his head fall back against the door when Vili’s attention turns to his exposed neck again, this time with teeth and tongue instead of lips, and each bite makes Eivor hold on a little tighter to Vili, fingers digging in at the dip of his waist. 

“A jarl is-“ Eivor lets out a soft moan as Vili grinds into him suddenly, but he continues, “-is a busy man, Vili.”

”I know, and you belong to your people, like any good jarl does,” Vili hisses, irritated, face flushed by the sun and by his own hunger, and his eyes are lovely, dark and deep as they stare at Eivor for a moment, “But in here, you are mine.”

Eivor stares back at him, lips parted by his gasps, the heat and Vili’s relentless attention making it hard to fill his lungs. 

“Yes?” Vili prompts him for an answer, his hands now roaming back to Eivor’s chest, resting on the muscle there for a brief second, and then they cradle Eivor’s face in the next. Vili presses a kiss to Eivor’s lips, far more gentle than he’s expecting. He barely pulls away, one hand leaving Eivor’s face, and then Vili presses him for an answer again, unsatisfied with Eivor’s silence.  _ “Yes?” _

As he says that, Eivor feels a sudden pressure right where he wants it as Vili palms him roughly, squeezing, forcing another growl from Eivor’s throat, torn out by a wave of pleasure as he bucks into Vili’s hand, unable to stop himself. “Yes! Vili-“

“Get this off.” Vili doesn’t give him a chance to speak, tugging at his shirt to signify what he means. Eivor wastes no time pulling the fabric roughly over his head, sending it to the floor carelessly, and then he quickly wraps his arms around Vili’s shoulders again, using him for balance as he kicks his boots off while Vili works on the laces of his breeches. They come undone quickly under Vili’s practiced hands, and Eivor buries his moan against Vili’s shoulder when he feels Vili’s firm hand around him, stroking idly, too lightly, easing his breeches down with a suddenly irritating show of patience. Eivor tastes the sun-warmed skin, the slick of sweat slowly building over Vili’s shoulders, and he bites down hard, a warning, just as he bucks up into Vili’s hand. Vili growls, low and deep, and shoves Eivor away entirely back to the door, a hand slipping around his throat as he leaves him neglected, exposed to the air and the faintest brush of Vili’s thigh as he pins him to the door. 

“No,” Vili tells Eivor, “I get to play with you now,  _ Eivor jarl,” _ the name rolls enticingly off his tongue, “And then I get to fuck you, until the only thing in your mouth is my name. No orders from a jarl, none of your pretty words, just  _ me.”  _

“Alright, arse-stick,” Eivor can’t help his teasing, the constant poking that he knows will only make Vili worse, “Show m—“

Vili cuts Eivor off, tightening his hand around his throat for a fleeting moment that leaves Eivor gasping. The building pleasure in his belly reminds Eivor of how much he loves this, this feeling of suddenly being out of control, completely at Vili’s mercy. He fixes his gaze on Vili, daring him to make his next move.

And Vili does, hoisting Eivor up to carry him to the bed where he lets him down onto his back, and pulls away to tug his breeches off entirely, leaving Eivor bared to him. Eivor shifts backwards on his elbows, a smirk on his face as he looks at Vili staring at him, as though he’s mapping him out in his mind, wondering where to break him. Eivor feels another thrill go through him at the thought, resting back amongst his furs and pillows, erection caught between the dip of his thigh and his hip as he lies there in wait, unmoving. 

“Gods.” Vili murmurs, his lust-rough voice turning soft as he steps closer, hands dropping to his own belt, eyes drifting over Eivor’s body. He palms himself roughly, gritting his teeth against a groan, and Eivor bites his lip to keep his own noises quiet. 

Climbing onto the bed, Vili straddles him, the weight comforting and familiar, but he keeps moving up - past Eivor’s waist, onto his chest, and Eivor licks his lips as he realizes what Vili is after. Eivor brings his hands to the laces of Vili’s straining breeches once Vili leans across to throw his belt aside. It’s quick work, and Eivor pulls Vili free with a firm stroke, glancing up to see Vili with his eyes closed as relief washes over him. He works him slowly, watching Vili intently, the way his muscles tense and relax and how his head bows, mouth open around his silent pleasure. Then Vili shifts closer, until Eivor replaces the hand around Vili’s cock with his mouth instead, and Vili lets out a low moan, head falling back as he clamps his mouth shut and cuts himself off. Eivor feels that warm pressure at his throat again as Vili wraps his hands around him, not tight, not enough to make breathing harder than it already is, but a reminder that he  _ can.  _ And Eivor hums around him, pleased with the attention, tongue flat against his length while Vili slips in and almost entirely out, making use of Eivor’s mouth for his own pleasure. 

“See?” Vili pants, gaze dropping to Eivor when Eivor pays particular attention to his head, enjoying the first taste of him. “Isn’t it better with just me in your mouth?” 

Eivor almost snorts, pulling off of Vili with a languid, torturously slow suck that makes Vili hiss at the sudden lack of heat enveloping him, and his hands threaten to tighten at Eivor’s neck. Still, Eivor glares up at him, licking his lips in a show of tasting him, enjoying him blatantly even when Vili seems to have the upper hand in everything. 

“I can think of other places you’d be better off in.” Eivor rasps as Vili’s thumb presses into his throat, just slightly, enough to thin out his voice into a breathy nothingness that has Vili grinning over him, eyes glazed over with desire. 

Then his breaths tumble freely from his lips once again, the heavy and familiar weight is gone from his chest, and Eivor watches as Vili stands and climbs off the bed to kick his breeches off, looking around the room for something. 

“The shelf.” Eivor points above him to the shelf that holds the dried bundle of herbs, and the oil that he assumes Vili is after, along with some coins and a half-melted candle amongst other odds and ends that Eivor’s collected. Vili grunts in response, climbing back on the bed to search, giving Eivor an ideal view from where he lies between Vili’s legs, looking up at him with a wide grin. He feels that ache in him growing too deep, too uncomfortable, and he reaches down to stroke himself lazily while Vili fumbles through the shelf, almost knocking the coins off.

“Why do you  _ hide  _ the oil behind… all this  _ stuff—“  _ Comes Vili’s complaint a moment later, and Eivor chuckles quietly, sitting up, letting go of himself to run his hands up Vili’s thighs. There are fewer scars here than the rest of him, but still enough for Eivor to explore with his mouth while he waits. He ends up travelling all the way to Vili’s stomach, to the line where his hip meets his leg, the harsh divot of muscle and bone mapped out in tender kisses and feather-light touches until Vili’s hand is tangling in Eivor’s hair again, pulling him away.

“You’ve had your fun.” Vili tells him, but he frees his hand from Eivor’s hair to bring it to his chin instead, holding him there. He stares down at him for a second, and Eivor is lost in the place where ocean blue meets aurora skies; their own little world tucked away in the furthest reaches of Yggdrasil. Here, everything is forgotten. Here, he only knows how to love the man in front of him. And here, Eivor is willing to expose the barest bones of himself to a man more than capable of breaking them in two. 

Vili seems to read those thoughts with ease, as though Eivor had spoken them aloud. He leans in and presses a kiss to Eivor’s lips, far softer and sweeter than anything else he’s given him so far tonight, and Eivor struggles not to melt entirely away underneath it. 

And then Vili’s grip grows tighter, toeing that line between pain and pleasure as he breaks the kiss and regards Eivor carefully. 

“Turn over.” 

Eivor does as he’s told and lies on his front, face resting in the furs. Warm hands explore his back for a few moments, interspersed by kisses pressed between shoulder blades and along the curve of his spine. Eivor hums contentedly, feeling himself relaxing bit by bit until Vili bites down hard on his ass and a strangled noise is pulled from his throat instead. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eivor throws over his shoulder, and he hears Vili laughing, the sting of the bite replaced by a gentle caress a second later as Vili continues playing with him, like he said he would.  _ Bacraut.  _

“Enjoying you. I’ve always wanted to do that.” Vili replies casually, glancing at Eivor as he squeezes his ass pointedly. Eivor can’t help but lift his hips as he does, as though every action Vili tries to enforce garners an opposite from Eivor, who is constantly trying to bite back. It irritates Vili in the sweetest of ways, Eivor finds, and he grins to himself when he hears another growl from Vili’s direction, followed by a hard slap to his bare ass. Eivor inhales sharply, suddenly, skin humming with pleasure as the sting from before returns twofold, and he sinks his face into the furs again to hide his reaction. 

“Ah…” Vili sounds far too pleased, “So you  _ do _ like it.”

“Shut up.” Eivor mumbles, fingers curling into the blankets as he feels Vili’s hands leave him, and he hears the small pop of a cork. Tension coils through him, cock twitching where it’s trapped between his belly and the furs, every part of him suddenly wound tight with anticipation until Vili’s leaning over him, mouth at his ear again.

“Relax, Eivor,” Vili murmurs, kissing just below his ear again, nose brushing the shell, “I love you.”

It doesn’t matter how often those words slip out these days in Vili’s voice, they still wrap tightly around his thudding heart and _ squeeze. _ It slows him down with a warmth like honey, dripping through him, until he can’t feel his own skin and bones for all the love that sings hot in his blood instead. It’s an indescribable feeling, one that Eivor can’t get enough of. He grins into the furs, melting under Vili’s words enough for him to slide a slick finger into him. Eivor bites down on a groan, the feeling still uncomfortable at first, but it ebbs away far quicker into pleasure now. When he’s ready, Eivor rocks backwards slightly, requesting more. Vili obliges with another finger, and the stretch sends a flush of heat through Eivor, and he’s sweating, almost squirming, hands fisting in the furs as he pushes himself up, feeling how close Vili is to that spot. Vili teases him too slowly, too casually, fingers barely moving inside him, and Eivor pushes back onto him with a growl, glancing over his shoulder. Vili only smirks back at him, running a hand along his back to his shoulder where he grips him tight, then adds a third finger. 

“Fuck—” Eivor hisses, eyes closing against the sudden intrusion, the pain almost surging past the pleasure for a moment until it settles, and Eivor’s head is bowed against the furs again, his hand fisted back into them, teeth gritted, sighs slipping into moans as Vili crooks his fingers just right. 

“Are you just refusing to say my name?” Vili wonders, and Eivor can barely eke out a laugh between the rolls of pleasure shooting through him. 

“Maybe if you did what you said you were going to do,” Eivor murmurs.

Vili’s fingers still inside Eivor, and he lets out an impatient whine, rocking back onto him. Vili holds his shoulder even tighter, stopping him. 

“And what was that?” Vili asks, thumb drawing circles where Eivor’s neck meets his shoulder, a pleasant relief of tension from the ache that’s growing in every part of him. 

“Fuck me,” Eivor mumbles over his shoulder, eyes half-open, looking up at Vili through golden lashes, “Fill my mouth with your name. You know how.” He dares a crooked smile at the last part, and he’s rewarded with the feeling of sudden emptiness as Vili slips his fingers out and pulls Eivor roughly towards him by his hips, hard enough to bruise. 

Eivor barely has time to catch his breath before he feels Vili lining himself up and pressing in. Eivor tenses with a groan, but Vili’s warm hands run along his back in soothing motions, relaxing him, allowing Eivor to take him until he’s full. Between the noises finally spilling from Vili’s mouth, the feeling of Vili beginning to move inside him, the friction of his own cock against the furs as Vili thrusts into him with intent, Eivor’s chain of thought is smashed into pieces. Fingers slide uselessly against the wooden frame of the bed, furs spilling out messily from underneath their tangled bodies, Eivor has nothing to hold onto as Vili slowly works him undone, and it is like nothing else. He is left completely adrift and alone with his own pleasure, unable to hold on to even the slightest fraction of control. Vili knows exactly what he’s doing as he grabs onto Eivor’s shoulders for leverage and begins to slam into him, rough and unforgiving, pushing Eivor even further into mindless ecstasy. 

“Vili…” No thought pushed Eivor to speak, he’s not sure how the syllables formed into Vili’s name. Vili laughs, but the sound is twisted up into his own moans when Eivor rocks back into him suddenly, and then Vili pulls out completely, face flushed with that same irritation again.

“You are so  _ fucking difficult—“  _ Vili growls, roughly grabbing Eivor by the hips and forcing him to turn over onto his back. Eivor’s left gasping as he stares up at Vili, chest and face burning red, cock leaking all over his belly, and he can only smile dazedly up at the man who’s made him like this. 

But the reprieve is short lived. Vili slides his hands down Eivor’s thighs and grips the back of them, forcing his legs up - one over his shoulder, the other held firmly in Vili’s grip, refusing to let Eivor squirm out of this one. He eases himself back into Eivor, and Eivor lets his head fall back into the furs, vision blurring with sweat and senseless thoughts as Vili fucks him, setting a relentless pace. When Eivor’s pleasure builds to a painful degree, he tries to reach for his cock, to offer himself the relief that Vili won’t give him, but Vili pulls his hand away and pins it above his head, and pulls Eivor’s other hand to join it there. 

“I can’t—“ Eivor practically whimpers, denied his own relief as Vili’s thrusts push him ever closer, and closer, and then Eivor’s mouth is filled with his name as Vili hits his spot unexpectedly, and he’s suddenly sent crashing over the edge, spilling all over himself as Vili all but fucks it out of him. Eivor’s vision is an empty swathe, legs trembling, completely weak and gasping for breath as he feels Vili come after him, he hears the stuttering moan above him, feels the messy kisses Vili presses to his mouth moments later, but Eivor is completely without anchor as his pleasure drowns him. 

“Eivor? Eivor…” Vili’s voice drifts somewhere on his peripheral, more than a few moments later. Eivor blinks, vision beginning to crystallise back into clarity again, and he finds Vili leaning over him, a hand at his face, thumb stroking his cheek. He looks concerned. Eivor just chuckles weakly, still not quite able to move.

“Alright, arse-stick,” Eivor mumbles hoarsely, “You showed me.”

Vili’s concern fades slightly, replaced by a smug smile, slowly spreading across his flushed face, eyes bright and clear again. Eivor huffs, pushing Vili’s face away teasingly, only for Vili to push back, peppering Eivor’s face with kisses, beard scratching and making Eivor laugh, squirming underneath him. 

“Ugh, you troll,” Eivor grins into another kiss, “It’s too hot. Fetch some water?” 

Vili hums an agreement. “Water. And some fruit, that was hard work.” 

Eivor shoves Vili off him. “Hard work? I can’t fucking walk.” 

Vili’s laugh fills the room as he pulls his breeches on, leaving Eivor to regather his senses in the haze of the room. He closes his eyes, a smile on his face, and he lets his earlier worries drift away on the river of warm impermanence. 

But a thought occurs to him, a cold and piercing needle through the haze, pointing out the words he's left unsaid.

“Vili?” Eivor hums, opening his eyes, hoping to catch Vili before he steps out. He sees Vili just setting the door brace aside, and he turns back to Eivor, brow raised. Eivor sighs contentedly, “I love you, too.”

The sunlight outside is nothing compared to Vili’s smile in return.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i love Sigurd a lot and i have too many thoughts and feelings about his character and sometimes they invade my thought processes for vili/eivor, i'm very sorry

It is a difficult task to untangle himself from Vili the next morning, Eivor finds. Between the ache that weighs heavy in his bones from last night and the fact Vili has somehow attached himself to Eivor’s side with a grip worthy of Gleipnir, Eivor spends more time than he’d like to admit just getting out of bed. He shushes Vili’s sleepy complaints with a kiss to his forehead, promising to see him later. Vili tangles his fingers in Eivor’s before he leaves, like he always does. 

Pulling his breeches and boots on, Eivor grabs his tunic from the floor, but changes his mind when he feels the warmth of sunlight filtering through, and shoulders the door open into the longhouse. Voices drift to his ears, some familiar, some made difficult to parse through the crackling of the hearth. He sees Ubba and Randvi sitting at one of the tables in quiet conversation, and idly makes his way over, stopping to pluck a handful of berries from a platter. 

There’s plenty to do today, with Freyja’s day falling soon. But first, Eivor wants to find Sigurd. Something about Ubba’s plans sits heavily in his heart, in the place shaped only by the loyalty he and Sigurd have carved between them. To go from being the heart and soul of a clan to someone who lingers on the edges like a ghost is a great leap, and to Eivor, it seems to cross a chasm that still threatens to swallow his brother up if his steps remain so bold. He fears Ubba’s intentions with Randvi might be the unexpected breeze that sends Sigurd stumbling. 

“Good morning, Eivor.” Randvi greets him as he approaches, momentarily lost in his thoughts. Eivor hums his response, mouth full of the sweet-sharp berries, and he leans his hip against the edge of the table.

“Morning.” Eivor rasps, voice unexpectedly hoarse. He swallows, clearing his throat. Ubba just snorts, tearing a bread roll apart in his hands from his spot next to Randvi.

“Did you fight a cat in there?” He remarks, gesturing to the angry red marks adorning Eivor’s chest. Eivor glances down at them, having completely forgotten. Glimpses of last night return to him, and he feels his ears turning red as he reaches for an untouched bread roll, still warm and waiting on a platter. 

“I think it would be kinder for your ears if we say that it was.” Eivor counters, not quite making eye contact with either of them. “Have either of you seen Sigurd?”

Randvi smiles from behind her tankard, eyes sparkling with amusement. Eivor just scowls, tearing off a chunk of his bread and shoving it into his mouth as if that would plug the stream of thoughts currently running through his mind, thoughts that he’d rather keep there than share with his advisors. 

“Speak of the trickster…” Randvi lifts a brow, nodding her head to somewhere behind Eivor. Eivor turns, seeing his throne there, and Sigurd emerging from the map room beyond. Eivor waves him over.

“Good timing, brother.” Eivor reaches over and grabs another bread roll, tossing it to Sigurd who catches it, still managing a surprising level of dexterity for someone apparently fresh from sleep. “You are with me this morning.”

Sigurd slows his steps as he nears, gaze sliding between Ubba, Randvi, and then finally onto Eivor. “Oh?” He frowns, doing a double-take on Eivor for a second. “You look like shit.”

“He fought a cat.” Ubba says drily, reaching for his tankard. 

“And here I am accompanied by my best and brightest,” Eivor sighs, glancing upwards as though Odin might appear and absolve him of their teasing, “The gods enjoy their jests.”

He feels a wet nudge at his knee, and it pulls his gaze downwards to Mouse’s big yellow eyes, eyeing the bread in Eivor’s hands hungrily. He sighs. Barely five minutes into his day and he’s accosted on all sides. 

“What are you doing this early in the morning that requires my presence, Eivor?” Sigurd offers a piece of his own breakfast to Mouse instead, which she accepts sloppily, licking at his fingers for every crumb until it’s gone, and she sits at Sigurd’s side, staring at Eivor as if to make it plainly obvious where her allegiance lies today.

“Errands,” Eivor answers with a shrug, “Am I not allowed time with my brother?” 

Sigurd smiles, almost absently. There’s a flicker of something behind his cold eyes that makes Eivor frown for a second, but he doesn’t dwell on it.

“Of course.”

“Good. Eat up, let’s go.” Eivor hops off the table, and leads the way out. 

By the time Eivor decides on the exact nature of the errand he wants to run, his feet have taken him out of the longhouse and beyond Valka’s hut, and they walk now through the quiet grove where their dead lay at rest beneath the hush of drooping willows. Wildflowers bloom bright across the graves, oranges and yellows and blues making up a strange and unnatural flame - and for Eivor, a reminder of the pyres that would have sent them on their way to fated halls. 

“It is peaceful here, now.” Sigurd comments as they pass through the low-hanging branches. Is he referring to the tense conversations they would weave around Dag’s grave? Or perhaps the fiery stares of unspoken grievances they shared in passing, each drifting to the quiet of the graves to collect their thoughts from time to time. Either way, Eivor hums his agreement, a ghostly chill running down his spine when he looks too long at the graves, and then he presses on. He is glad those days have passed beyond reach, although not entirely beyond recall. 

“Where  _ are  _ we going?” Sigurd sighs, reaching up to sweep a stray lock of hair from his face. 

“The orchards.” Eivor answers easily, shooting a glance over his shoulder. Free from his furs and finery and clad only in the basics of breeches and a green tunic, Sigurd looks years younger. He looks like Eivor used to know him, when they were children, when they were nothing but brothers - no worries of jarldom or alliance draped upon them and strung between them like chains, pulled tight and threatening to break under the strain. 

“Orchards…” Sigurd narrows his eyes, trying to piece together why. 

“You know, where apples come from.” Eivor’s smile is blatantly teasing, and he laughs when Sigurd just scowls back at him, stomping in his wake through the trees. 

“So, two fated drengr picking apples,” Sigurd huffs, “It is a long way from those bloody battles I shared with you.”

Eivor nods, picking his way through the tall grasses that lead to the beginnings of their new orchards. The tree cover recedes into the more sporadic placement of the apple trees, stretching out for a good while across a rolling hill, grasses lit by gold in the morning sun. 

“We planted these when we arrived.” Eivor tells Sigurd, “One of our first trades here. A few hides for a bag of wheat from a farmer who sells his stock every fifth morning on the river eastwards. He gave us a bag of seed too, thin pickings from his farm. Told us to grow something that would last, instead of destroying all that we see.” 

He tilts his head as the memory comes to mind, murky, like the banks of the Nene in the spring muds. His feet stop at the foot of the orchard, where the tall grass ends and the golden loom is laid before him. 

“Is this one of your complicated verses, Eivor?” Sigurd sighs wearily, almost bumping into Eivor. He catches himself with a hand on Eivor’s shoulder, circling around him to his side instead, and stares at the orchard as if waiting for it to speak some secret to him. Eivor gives him a sideways glance, smiling.

“No. I just want a hand with the apples.” Eivor slaps Sigurd’s arm, then stalks off. He hears Sigurd’s laughter following.

Eivor points out an empty bucket nestled beside a tree laden with fruit, and gestures for Sigurd to pick the ones he can reach while Eivor pulls himself up the branches to reach the ones further from the ground. It is an easy rhythm to fall into, interspersed with chatter and pointed jabs, spoken as though they are children again. But as the sun creeps up into the morning sky and sends more and more light splintering through the leaves, Eivor’s worry slowly thaws free from that carved out piece of his heart. He chucks an apple down into the bucket from his perch, and then leans on the branch, staring down at Sigurd, his braid tumbling past his shoulders.

“Brother, tell me something.” Eivor says, practically lying on this branch, cheek resting against the arm folded across it, his other arm swinging lazily down. Sigurd looks up, cheeks flushed with the work of trawling across the fields underneath the growing heat of a summer day. 

“Well, there is that story about--”

Eivor laughs. “No, no, I meant… shut up, and let me ask you something.”

Sigurd lifts his brow, smiling faintly, but he gestures for Eivor to continue, leaning against the tree trunk for a brief rest as he looks up at Eivor.

“I know that you and Randvi parted ways--”

“Are you about to ask me what I think of Ubba Ragnarsson slipping into bed with the woman I used to call my wife? Because that is a stupid que--”

“Sigurd.” Eivor interrupts,  _ “Shut up. _ Let me finish.”

Sigurd falls silent again, but his gaze is cold as he peers up at Eivor, the sunlight failing to touch him where he stands in the shade.

“Do you not get lonely?” Eivor asks bluntly. If there is a better way to ask that question, he cannot quite fathom it - disguising it under his usual honey-sweet words would only wind Sigurd up, and he has no desire to do that now, not when it’s honesty he’s asking for. 

Sigurd looks baffled for a moment, mouth opening as though he’s about to ask what in Hel he’s talking about, but an understanding seems to dawn on him as the canopy shifts and sunlight falls across his cheeks, illuminating the icy depths of his stare. He blinks, seemingly lost for words. 

“I… don’t think so.” Sigurd manages after a moment. He frowns, looking unsatisfied with his own answer. “What exactly do you mean?” 

Eivor sits up, pushing himself up from the branch, legs dangling either side of it as he looks down at Sigurd. “I mean… I have Vili. Randvi has Ubba. Gunnar is about to get married. You are surrounded by… all of this.”

Sigurd smiles then, frown smoothing away as his brows lift, eyes sparkling with something playful, a glimmer of the boy he used to know. “Are you talking about _ love,  _ Eivor?”

“Ugh.” Eivor grimaces. He can feel his ears burning, and it’s not the sun causing it, seeing as he’s tucked away safely in the shade of the branches. He feels like that stupid young boy again, fifteen winters old and angrily avoiding Sigurd’s teasing questions about which girl had turned him down that day. How little both of them knew, Eivor thinks. 

“Yes?” Sigurd prompts, pushing off the tree with his shoulder to face Eivor, who nods back at him in silent confirmation. Sigurd sighs quietly, his hand going to run idly along the bark of the tree, plucking off a cracked piece. Eivor watches him carefully, feeling like he’s lost in Sigurd’s shadow again, left to wait there until it’s safe to emerge. 

“I love you. I love Randvi. I love our clan.” Sigurd speaks so quietly that Eivor has to lean down a little to hear him. “Love is not absent in my heart, Eivor, if that is your worry.”

“But…?” It is Eivor’s turn to prompt him for more, sensing that his thoughts run far deeper than his words. 

“You speak of a specific  _ kind  _ of love.” Sigurd points out, glancing at Eivor from under his brow - as though he isn’t prepared to face him fully. “One that I have never desired.” 

Eivor blinks, surprised by the answer. His hand almost slips from the branch, but he steadies himself. “Truly? Not even with…” He can’t begin to recall all the women he’s seen in Sigurd’s arms over the years, but something tells him that he is rowing too boldly up the wrong river. That isn’t the love he’s speaking of. 

And Sigurd echoes the thought, shaking his head. “It is not for me. I have never really understood what it is that I desired of the world, but…”

“It’s not that.” Eivor finishes what Sigurd leaves unspoken, and Sigurd smiles wearily up at him, as though simply voicing that aloud had taken some toll on him. Eivor frowns, and swings himself down from the branch, landing steadily on his feet before he walks over to Sigurd.

“Does it pain you to see it amongst others?” Eivor wonders, voice quiet, like he’s asking Sigurd to hide him from Styrbjorn for the sake of a broken ornament again, and not simply speaking to his brother, years beyond that memory. Sigurd’s smile grows a little stronger, lit both by Eivor’s presence and the flourishing sunlight. He reaches his hand up to land on Eivor’s shoulder, squeezing him gently.

“Not at all. It gladdens my heart to see it, Eivor,” Sigurd points out, “To see you, and Randvi, and even old Gunnar enjoy that part of life. Do not worry yourself over what my heart wants. Just worry about yours.” And he drops his hand to nudge a fist into Eivor’s chest, where his heart beats away solidly. Eivor smiles at last, nodding, dropping his gaze, feeling a little silly for even asking - but he feels better for it, that weight in his heart is significantly lessened by Sigurd’s words. 

“Speaking of,” Sigurd’s smile turns devilish, “Ubba mentioned you were after some advice yesterday. You didn’t even think to come to me first? I’m hurt, Eivor.”

Eivor’s smile is quickly replaced with a glowering look. “What did he say?”

“Well, first, he asked why Vili calls you--”

“I told him not to ask.” Eivor sighs sharply, rubbing his forehead. 

“Fortunately for you, and maybe for me, I do not know the answer to that, and I think I might like to keep it that way,” Sigurd snorts, voice carrying the tremors of laughter beneath it now, “But he also mentioned something… interesting….” 

Eivor’s entire face is red now. He can feel it. He ducks away to pick up the bucket of apples, now nearly full, and tries to start walking away. Sigurd catches up easily with his longer strides, and slings his arm about Eivor’s shoulders, continuing on.

“You had a lot of questions about the bonds of marriage.” 

“Gods. The more time he spends with Randvi, the worse he seems to be at keeping secrets.” Eivor grouses.

“Between you and me, little raven, Ubba cannot hold onto a secret for shit. He likes to talk.”

“Talk, talk, _ talk…” _ Eivor mimics Ivarr’s voice, and Sigurd barks out a laugh, interrupting his own words. Eivor allows himself a pleased smile, chuckling to himself. 

“But really, Eivor,” Sigurd squeezes Eivor’s shoulders again, getting his attention back, “He seemed convinced you were about to present an ancestral weapon to Vili at any moment.”

Eivor almost chokes on his words, coughing against the sudden reversal of air in his throat. He doesn’t say anything after that. What is there to say? He’s not ruling it out, but the possibility seems to be cast adrift in its own sea, and Eivor isn’t really sure how to reach it. 

“Your father’s axe would be a nice offering. You haven’t used it in years.” Sigurd points out. Eivor allows himself to consider the idea, not really knowing where to stop. It stirs up some unspoken emotions in his chest, like a scattering of dust in the sun, clinging to the spaces between his ribs, only obvious now that a light has been cast upon it. He wonders what Varin would think, if he were here to see it. Would he be happy? Eivor hopes so. 

Suddenly, that possibility seems much closer. 

Despite himself, Eivor can feel his smile growing as they walk. He feels Sigurd watching him. He feels his own laughter spilling out, a mix of disbelief and sheer emotion that he can’t put a name to. 

“Let’s... “ Eivor sighs, his laughter fading out, “Let’s just… one wedding at a time.” 

Sigurd chuckles, clapping Eivor on the back as he drops his arm from his shoulders. “You’re in charge, Eivor. Mostly.”

They spend a while longer amongst the orchards, Sigurd daring Eivor to climb higher and higher with every tree they stop at, Eivor dropping ripe apples mostly into the bucket they’ve picked up, but sometimes aiming them at Sigurd’s head when he starts scowling at some insignificant sentiment that isn’t worth dwelling on. It’s a simple task, a balm for weary souls, and by the time Eivor’s carrying a full bucket of apples back through the orchard, they both walk with lighter steps.

* * *

It’s midday when Eivor and Sigurd return with buckets full of apples and a few twigs in their hair, the both of them having lost track of time in favour of chasing down childhood stories up as many trees as possible. With Sigurd returning to the longhouse, Eivor turns his mind to the next set of tasks to run through.

Above him, the sun is beating down heavily, not a single cloud in the sky to shade Ravensthorpe from its relentless presence, and Eivor can barely string together a thought that doesn’t involve some degree of irritation at the heat crawling over his skin. He hears Synin caw overhead, closer than usual. Glancing up with a hand shielding his eyes, it’s not hard to spot his raven, stark black against the brilliant blue.

“What do you have for me?” Eivor wonders, watching as Synin swoops low. He fears for a moment she will land on his bare shoulder, but her wing just brushes his ear as she dives past and then rises upwards again, beating her wings as she alters course for the southern edge of the settlement, towards the river. Eivor follows, taking the path past the longhouse and the brewery, enjoying the sounds of the stream running alongside. Synin circles above him and comes to rest on the roof of Tarben’s bakery, fluffing out her wings.

“The bakery? Are you after a treat, Synin? Tired of raven-wine and gore?” Eivor asks, glancing into the house which lies empty. He steps around the stone wall that houses the oven, which he can feel is cooking away - the furnace radiates heat as he passes it, enough to make his skin prickle with sweat, uncomfortable and cloying underneath the already oppressive warmth of the day. And as he rounds the wall, he sees why Synin has led him here. 

Vili sits with his back to Eivor, muscles pulled tense with the effort of turning the millstone, and Eivor is content to lean against the wall and watch for a moment or two, smiling to himself. He hadn’t left many marks last night, he notices, with a twinge of dissatisfaction. Only the purpling bruise of a bite adorns Vili’s neck where it meets his left shoulder, and Eivor supposes it will have to be enough for now. He smiles to himself, and then pushes off the wall to close the distance, reaching out to settle his hands on Vili’s shoulders.

“I see Tarben is keeping you busy. Where is he?” Eivor asks, squeezing Vili’s shoulders lightly, thumbs rubbing idly at the tension he can feel there. Vili glances over his shoulder, barely slowing in his task, wheat grinding away to flour beneath the heavy stones. Eivor chuckles at the flour streaks adorning Vili’s face, a testament to Vili’s tendency to throw himself into his work, and a sight that is all too endearing. 

“He went to fetch more supplies downriver.” Vili answers, nodding his head towards the docks. 

“Huh,” Eivor smooths Vili’s hair absently, “And he left you unattended? Does he know what you do to places?”

Vili laughs, finishing up the dregs of this last batch of wheat. He chucks away the empty husks and turns on his seat to face Eivor properly, smiling up at him as he settles his hands on Eivor’s waist. Eivor glances down at them, seeing that they’re covered in flour, and shakes his head.

“Eivor,” Vili brings Eivor’s attention back to him, “Where are you going now? Randvi said you had errands to run with Sigurd this morning.”

“I did,” Eivor brushes some flour from Vili’s cheek, smiling faintly, “We needed apples from the orchard, and I wanted to spend some time with him. And now,” Eivor hums in thought for a second, frowning as he glances across the settlement, “I might have to find some wayward terrors, make use of young hands to weave some flowers. We need decorations.” 

“Well, I am finished here. Tarben does not trust me with the baker’s oven, I have no idea why.” Vili all but pouts, and Eivor grins, laughing as he cradles Vili’s face in his hands.

“Perhaps he fears what a mighty drengr with a love of setting things ablaze might do to his hard work.”

Vili’s nose scrunches, brow furrowing. “I have no love of setting things ablaze, Eivor.”

“I think you will find most of England’s monasteries disagree with you.” Eivor reminds him, pinching his cheeks. Vili grumbles, shaking his head free of Eivor’s hands.

“And here I was thinking I might offer you the luxury of my company, but after all this slander...” 

“Somebody has to keep you humble.” Eivor laughs, leaning down to kiss Vili’s furrowed brow, but he winces as Vili’s arms snake around his hips and squeeze, pressing on the bruises forming there beneath the waistband of his breeches. 

Vili smiles smugly up at him when he realizes why. He tilts his head, dark lashes obscuring the depths of ocean blue. For a moment, Eivor sees a passing shadow in those eyes - a thought Vili doesn’t seem willing to share. It flickers away as quickly as it arrived, and leaves Eivor staring into sunlit tides. “Did you think of me today, Eivor?” 

It was hard not to. Eivor just stares at Vili, as enamoured as he is irritated with him in this moment. He knows his silence is as much of an answer as loudly declaring it, so Eivor smirks down at Vili in silent confirmation before he pulls away.

“Come on, then, if you want to be helpful for once.” 

* * *

“Eira, can you pass the blue flowers?” Vili looks up from the chain of flowers slowly taking form in his hands, one of many being woven for the arch that would be the centrepiece of this wedding. A symbol of growth and prosperity, but more importantly a sign of reverence and a request for Freyja’s bounty to seek out the married couple, and bless them in their newly joined lives. 

“Here, Vili, you can have some of mine.” Sylvi passes some to Vili, and Eivor has to disguise his snort of laughter with a cough when he catches Vili looking helplessly his way. 

“How does this look?” Eivor holds up his part of the chain for inspection, a twisting vine of purples and pinks, lit up vibrantly by the afternoon sun. Sylvi beams from beside Vili, nodding her approval. Next to her, Eira gasps, delighted, and she rushes over to run her hands along the petals gently.

“It’s _ so pretty,  _ Eivor. You’re really good at this.” She smiles shyly at Eivor, pulling her hands back to her sides.

“I had some wise teachers.” Eivor grins back, “You picked the colours. I think it looks wonderful.”

Eira giggles, her shy gaze lighting up. Pleased, she skips back over to her steadily diminishing pile of flowers, sorting them into colours again. 

Eivor chuckles to himself, leaning back against the tree, enjoying the sun drifting through the leaves. A breeze rustles through occasionally, parting the branches enough to let the sun shine down on all of them sitting beneath the boughs. He watches Vili trying to weave the stems of two flowers together, making a mess of it. The petals are half-crushed and looking terribly sad by the time Vili presents the offering to the girls, who burst into laughter before they try to help him, barely taller than him as they stand at his shoulders next to him where he’s sat cross-legged on the ground. There is a warmth to him here that Eivor doesn’t see often, an openness; he’s willing to make these silly mistakes with such an easy little task, knowing the simple honesty of children won’t scorn him or leave him wondering what he can fix. And he seems to revel in the interaction, ensuring Sylvi and Eira return to their own tasks with beaming smiles every time. 

Vili has always been easy to love, and in this moment, Eivor thinks he understands why.

He’s distracted from his rambling thoughts by heavy footsteps making their way up the hill, followed by Ubba’s familiar rumbling voice. He glances over, seeing the man appear around the tree, hands full with a crate, and in his footsteps, Knud follows briskly, chattering away. 

“Father says I am too young to throw axes, but I saw Eivor do it when we helped him save Mouse, and it doesn’t look  _ that  _ hard--”

“Your father is right, Knud,” Ubba sighs, shooting Eivor a weary look as he nods in greeting to him, “You need a strong arm to throw an axe well and you could not even carry this crate, so I think you have a year or two left to grow, boy.”

Knud huffs as Ubba’s rumbling laugh sounds. “I  _ could  _ carry it.”

“You will one day. For now, enjoy the freedom that you have.” Ubba tells him, and sets the crate on the ground. Eivor spies the array of colourful shells contained within.

“So that is where you disappeared to, Knud. Will you make the shell wreaths?” Eivor asks, starting to thread a fresh chain together. 

Knud juts his chin out, hands on his hips. “I’m going to make the  _ best  _ ones, Eivor. And Ubba is going to help me.”

Ubba lifts a brow, towering over Knud, but he has a faint smile on his face. “Am I?”

_ “Please?” _

Eivor smirks at Ubba when the man looks at him as though Eivor would see him out of this. And perhaps Eivor might have helped him out on a battlefield surrounded by Saxons, or he might have listened to a request for aid against an unruly thegn, but this is a battle Eivor has faced and lost many times before. Ubba will see no help from Eivor on this one. Ubba seems to recognize the sentiment, and turns back to Knud with a sigh.

“I do not think I have much choice, young drengr,” Ubba sits across from Eivor and Vili, gesturing to the crate as he regards Knud, “Show me how you make your wreaths.” 

The sun reaches higher and higher into the sky, but none of them pay any notice.

* * *

“--and after we have your raiders move the benches up to the hill, we will bring the rest, decorate, and all that’s left is…”

“A wedding.” Eivor finishes Randvi’s sentence, sitting across from her in the longhouse, at the table closest to the throne. 

Randvi nods, smiling. “No small thing, but it will all be worth it.”

“I am looking forward to it, actually,” Eivor chuckles, turning his mug of mead around on the table between his hands, staring down into it, “Next time, I will be better prepared.”

“Next time?” Randvi quirks a brow, leaning in as though Eivor’s about to spill a secret. And for a second, Eivor almost does, until he realizes who he’s talking to, and his words fade away in favour of a sly grin.

“I feel as though we will see a few weddings in our time here, now that things have settled.” Eivor offers with a half shrug, lifting the mug to his lips to save any further words from tumbling out. Randvi leans back, eyeing Eivor suspiciously. She doesn’t say anything, but Eivor can feel the question lingering even as he sets his mug back down, licking his lips.

“What?” He presses. 

“Nothing.” Randvi brushes it off, folding her arms on the table. It’s Eivor’s turn to let his suspicious glare hang over her for a moment or two, before he lets it slide. They talk and laugh between sips of mead and growing exhaustion, the evening drawing on with long shadows as the sun finally begins to descend outside. 

Their conversation is interrupted by Mouse’s sudden barking as she scampers into the longhouse at Vili’s feet, bouncing around him, tail wagging. Vili looks distracted, even as he murmurs platitudes to Mouse and offers her a scratch behind the ears in her favourite spot, but his expression lightens when he sees Eivor and Randvi.

“And you haven’t even said hello to Eivor? Mouse, you can’t let your favourites be known, what have I told you?” Vili teases, scritching her cheeks with a laugh before he wanders over. Eivor notices he’s dressed for travel, and he looks up at Vili, a question clear in his eyes.

“Do not look so worried.” Vili chuckles, a hand going to rest at the back of Eivor’s neck. 

“Going somewhere?” Eivor lifts a brow, hand resting over the top of his tankard as he slides it away from him, turning his attention to Vili. 

“Not far, Eivor. I have a favour to collect in Tamworth.” Vili says, scratching lightly at the nape of Eivor’s neck. Usually, Eivor finds the gesture comforting, but it falls short tonight, drowned out by a sudden wave of questions.

“Right now? Can’t you leave in the morning?” Eivor does his best not to sound like a whining brat, especially feeling Randvi’s eyes on the conversation, but he’s particularly unimpressed at the idea of spending tonight alone. He had planned on some payback for the mess Vili had made of him last night. 

“In this heat, my mount would throw me and find the nearest river before I even reach the shire’s edge. Nighttime is cooler, and I will be quicker.” Vili explains. It’s not something Eivor can argue, and at that, Eivor makes a noise of discontent, rubbing at his jaw. 

“Tamworth? It’s not far…” He murmurs, idly imagining the road there. Danger takes the form of opportunistic bandits more often than not these days, and there are no major Saxon camps to worry about from here to the Norse-aligned fortress of Tamworth. It’s not likely that Vili will run into trouble unless he creates it, and Eivor knows he’s smart enough not to do that alone. 

“Exactly. I won’t be gone long, but trust me when I say it’s important.” Vili’s brow furrows briefly, tone serious, laden with something Eivor can’t quite place. 

“So important, you didn’t tell me before now?”

_ “Trust me, _ raven-heart. No more than a day and a half’s ride there and back, and I  _ will  _ be back. I promise.” 

Somewhere between the name only Vili calls Eivor and the promise that lies within, Eivor feels the growing binds of concern slowly diminish. If Vili says it is important, Eivor knows it must be. He will joke about many things, but Eivor knows him well enough to understand where he draws that line. Eivor begins to drift into thoughts of what has Vili so distracted, so eager to leave and yet so insistent that he will return, but he pushes those thoughts aside to simply nod, letting out a sigh, but smiling nonetheless.

“Go, then. Knowing you, you could do with a head start if you want to make your estimate, you move about as quickly as sea ice.” Eivor says drily, lips lifting into a half-smile as he sees Vili biting back a retort in favour of leaning down and pressing a kiss to Eivor’s lips instead, short and sweet, given present company, and then he’s walking out of the longhouse and into the evening. Eivor watches him go until he’s completely out of sight, and then he lets his shoulders sink, raking fingers along the shorn side of his scalp as he rests his arm on the table, and his head in his hand. 

“All things considered,” Randvi says from across the table, her joking tone a light balm to the sting Vili left, however unintentionally, “He _ is  _ a very sweet man. How long did it take for you to realize, again?”

“Shut up.” Eivor turns back to his mead, but he doesn’t bother to hide his smile. 


End file.
